


down on my knees

by kattyshack



Series: forgive me, father, for i have sinned... [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (jon’s just here for some internal turmoil and to show sansa a good time), (not jon tho i mean he’s kinda dark but he doesn’t fuckin suck), (so like canon basically), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, Dark Jon Snow, F/M, Forbidden Love, Modern Westeros, Possessive Behavior, Priest Kink, Romance, Sexual Content, Teacher-Student Relationship, some mentions of past emotional abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-01 03:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15133874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: Jon confronts his temptation in the confessional booth.(title from “like a prayer,” by madonna)





	down on my knees

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melissa_Alexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melissa_Alexander/gifts).



> a/n: this is largely a warm-up for the original erotic romance i’m working on, but i told melissa i’d write a jonsa bit in a similar vein so here we are, sinning together 
> 
> despite the modern westerosi twist on irl religion, this is probably potentially offensive but if it means anything that’s not the intention, like… forbidden love has a lot (a LOT) of subcategories, and priest kink is just one of the many avenues to explore within that wider theme. so kindly take this for what it is, or skip it if it’s not your thing.

The confessional door creaks when it’s opened, and clicks when it shuts. Jasmine — thick and sweet and heady — lingers in the air of the small, compact space, threatening to suffocate him with how badly he wants her.

_Sweet and hot and forbidden… Not yours, never yours…_

Vows be damned, he wants her to be.

Her voice, throaty and lyrical with its slight northern burr, sounds from behind the thin curtain that separates them in the booth. The embroidered face of the weirwood tree stares him down as Jon looks past it, to the silhouette of _her_ , illuminated by the light of the stained glass window on the other side.

She has come late to confession, and so everyone who might have interrupted has long since retired to the dorms.

The temptation is almost too much to bear.

And Jon has seldom been a man to deny his own temptations. He had known from a young age that feigning indifference would not diminish one’s cravings; no, they were meant to be faced and conquered. Men — even the holiest of those who served in the septs or, as Jon had, dedicated their lives to the Brotherhood of the Night’s Watch — were fallible. It would not do to try to fool the gods. They saw all, knew all, and Jon would not pretend he was invincible.

He had in fact never been more weak, more _man_ , than the day Sansa Stark walked into his classroom.

The girl was all legs and braids and a splash of the most potent jasmine perfume, the one that teases his nose now, that makes his hair stand on end, his fists clench and his cock twitch. It’s a scent that forever follows Jon through the corridors, the Godswood, all the way into his own twisted bedsheets where he takes himself in hand to thoughts of her:

Sansa, on her knees in morning prayer. _Sansa, on her knees in front of him._

Sansa, glossy peach lips murmuring the sacred words, hymns rolling off her songbird pink tongue. _Sansa, gasping and sighing and singing his name._

Sansa, tugging a lock of hair as she’s lost in thought. _Sansa, twirling and tugging his curls in her fingers as he buries his face between those endless dancer’s legs, in her sweet cunt, all hot and wet and begging for his mouth the way he begs for her taste._

He’s not meant to want these things, not meant to crave and lust for them, to fantasize and obsess. But she runs through his mind, through his veins, all the same. She’s scant but a handful of years younger than he is, but it’s not age which burns a hole in Jon’s conscience. He is a devoted man of the Night’s Watch, a Brother in the ranks of men who had made martyrs of themselves. They would inherit no properties nor fortune, they would take no wives, but commit their lives entirely to the Watch and whatever their elders would ask of them.

But when his eyes find Sansa — and they so often do, they _seek her out_ — Jon doesn’t wish to spend his days as a martyr. Her lips curve into a grin, a shy smile, a saucy smirk, and he aches to be her lover.

It’s a sharp ache, an acute pang that he cannot escape. Jon wonders if this is his punishment as decreed by the gods — the old, the new, the Seven, whichever ones had deemed him a sinner for this appetite he harbors for her — and wonders further if he might find salvation between Sansa’s thighs.

So perhaps he is a sinner after all, for the guilt that should be tearing him apart at the seams is _nothing_ compared to the sweet cadence of Sansa’s voice as she utters her confessions.

“I broke up with my boyfriend,” she reveals after the usual admittances. A humorless chuckle escapes. “I know that’s not a sin, only he made me feel like it was.”

Jon clears his throat, suddenly plagued by an agitation that is more than his itch to touch her. He’d known Sansa’s boyfriend, Harry Hardyng, had gone to school with him for a spell until Jon had left to pursue his path to take the black. He’d not seen the man again until they’d met here on the Wolfswood Academy campus nearly six months ago. They’d come toe-to-toe in the middle of one of the school’s winding walkways, when Harry and Sansa had been hand-in-hand and Jon had been tempted to break his arm for it. It hadn't mattered that Sansa wasn’t _his_ , that she couldn't be, that it was dangerous to even entertain the thought of _what if she could?_ — Jon wanted her, Harry had her, and it was _wrong_ , all wrong.

He’d dreamt of her more often after that. He should have stopped himself, should have known he was going too far by coveting a young woman who was bound to another. Wanting her was bad enough, but the envy that drove his furious fantasies — _Harry, broken and bleeding and out of the way; Sansa, writhing beneath Jon as he mapped her long lithe body with bloodied hands, as he drove her mad and made her come_ — had been a ticket straight to the Seven hells.

Yet Jon had done nothing to control himself. His lust had commandeered his good sense, had superseded his sworn, ancient oaths, and so he’d done nothing but pray for forgiveness whilst the jealousy ate him alive.

But that jealousy has abated with Sansa’s words: Harry doesn’t have her anymore, and Jon longs to know why. So he asks, “Do you feel your decision was wrong in the eyes of your gods?”

“Well that depends.” Sansa’s shadow shifts. “He thought himself a god, so —”

“So he’s the one who should be seeking his penance, Sansa,” Jon bites back. He’s not meant to call her by her name, not meant to upset the comfort of anonymity that’s promised within the confessional booth. But Jon had never done what he was meant to — not since Sansa. “You’ve done nothing so vain or faithless as that.”

Silence follows. The curtain billows a bit when Sansa’s polished oxfords shuffle against the floorboards. A sniffle, and then —

“I gave myself up to him, though. I’ve no intention of marrying him, I never did, but I couldn’t have who I wanted and I thought that I could use Harry to get a grip, to move on.” This confession comes forth in a rush of words and barely repressed sobs. “So I did everything he asked — everything he _wanted_ , because sometimes he didn’t ask at all. When I told him I didn’t want to anymore, he said no one else would want me now, that I was damaged goods, so I could ditch him if I liked but I’d never find someone else.”

Jon’s hands ball into fists on his lap, fingernails biting into his palms. They itch and yearn, to snap every bone in Harry’s body, to touch Sansa the way she _wanted_ to be touched… The desire pools low in his gut, setting him aflame from within as Sansa’s words reel through his mind —

_I couldn’t have who I wanted._

“Sansa,” he says her name again, _growls_ it, “I _promise you_ he’s wrong.”

Another beat of silence follows before she speaks again. “That’s twice now you’ve said my name, Brother Jon. How did you know it was me?”

It’s as though a demon spirit possesses him, the same creature that never allows him to bury himself in denial or platitudes or any such false comforts, and Jon is speaking before he can think (he’s so _tired_ of thinking, of wishing, of pining and starving and dreaming):

“Because I know what I want.”

And it’s time, isn’t it, that he has it.

Sansa’s breath catches when the legs of Jon’s chair creak. The curtain between them flutters again, those woven Heart Tree eyes boring into Jon, daring him to come closer, to breach this gap, to succumb completely, finally, to all those things for which he’d prayed freedom and forgiveness.

But he doesn’t want freedom and forgiveness anymore. The gods be damned, but Jon’s soul isn’t theirs to hold anymore; it’s Sansa’s, and she can do whatever she will with him.

Her fingers are curled around the edge of the weirwood tapestry as though she means to pull it aside, to bare herself to him, but she pauses for a heartbeat that Jon cannot stand to endure. His hand clasps over hers, fingers tangled, and he yanks the cloth so fiercely that it tears.

He’ll pray again for absolution, just as soon as he’s finished paying penance for making her wait.

Those blue eyes are wide when his gaze meets hers — wide and glistening with tears and the setting sun beyond the stained glass panes behind her.

“Sansa —” But he has nothing else to say, truly, only what he longs to _do_.

In an instant, Jon is on his knees before her, hands on her neck as his mouth dives in to devour hers. She matches his frantic pace with an urgency all her own. Their lips part, teeth clash, tongues tangle, and he’s drinking from her mouth like a man who might never be sated.

Even if he was, Jon could never get enough of her. _Sansa Sansa Sansa_ , her name rings in his head and swims in his veins and sets his heart to racing as she takes it for her own.

 _It’s yours, darling girl_ , Jon thinks as his hands scramble to touch her all over. _Completely, forever yours._

Her own hands tug at his uniform black shirt as his move to bunch her plaid skirt between greedy fingers. He doesn’t know where he wishes to touch her first, only all over, everywhere, everywhere, _everywhere_.

The stained glass bleeds rainbows across her skin, painting her in hues of blues and greens and golds. Jon traces the colors with impatient hands and chases them with his mouth, swollen from Sansa’s eager reciprocation and starving for more more _more_ of her. 

_All of her._

“Such a pretty girl, Sansa,” he mutters into her lush red waves of hair. He scrapes blunt fingernails down her thighs and revels in her shudder. “You’ve no idea how badly I want you, how I’ve wanted to make you mine.”

“I want it, too.” Another confession that sets Jon’s blood to humming, to coarse through his lightning-charged body and make his cock hard for her. “I want you so bad it hurts, I know I shouldn’t —”

“But I want you to,” Jon assures her, voice rough as he sucks on her neck. “I want you to want this. Want me, want what I’m gonna do to you…”

As his hungry mouth wanders to Sansa’s throat, Jon’s tongue finds the weirwood locket nestled there. A trinket of garnet and white-gold, a holy talisman that he dearly wishes to rip from her neck with his teeth.

It’s a sinful thought, damnable — but, Jon wonders as he explores her flushed skin, her harried pulse, who could hear the sighs that spill from her lips and still call this unholy?

Not that it matters anymore. Jon couldn’t stop now if the gods themselves set the confessional booth ablaze. He doesn’t want to, he doesn’t _care_.

He wants Sansa, and she wants him to have her. She’s the only altar he cares to worship at from now on.

And worship her he will.

He pops the buttons of her crisp white blouse. Pale pink lace greets him underneath, so innocent that it makes Jon ache for her all the more. _Mine mine mine_ , his possessive thoughts chant as he buries his face in the swell of her breasts. He sucks bruises onto the soft, sensitive skin and groans, “ _Mine_ , Sansa, you are mine, aren’t you?” He laves his tongue over the lace. “Tell me, tell me who you belong to.”

He rucks up her skirt and fingers her through her panties — more lace, he registers, but he’s sucking a nipple over her bra and so texture is all he knows.

 _“You,”_ Sansa gasps when he nips her with his teeth. She’s twisting his curls the way he always imagined, back arching when his fingers play her cunt, pushing herself against him just as he pulls her closer. “I’m yours, Jon, you can do whatever you want to me.”

 _Like Harry did_ , Jon recalls. Another growl rips from his throat. He won’t do that, he won’t _be that_ to her. He wants more than what she thinks she’s meant to give; he wants to give to her, so that she’ll never want anyone else, so that she’ll only ever want _him_ — what she thought she couldn’t have.

Damn all of Jon’s sacred vows to the deepest of hells, he’s going to _give it to her_.

He sucks her earlobe between his lips and mutters darkly — a delicious sort of threat — “I want to make you come.”

Eyes dark, skin flushed, his name rolls off her tongue like some sweet forgotten litany: _“Jon —”_

He doesn’t know what else she means to say, but he’s already left her ear for her cunt, intent on tasting her release when he evokes it. He wants to make Sansa come and he wants to know what she sounds like when it’s him between her legs, when it’s _his_ mouth on her pussy, _his_ tongue on her clit. Jon wants to know how it ends when he’s the one who makes her feel like whatever heaven might still welcome them when all of this is through.

And even if none of them do, Jon thinks he might find a heaven all his own with Sansa’s legs ‘round his shoulders and her fingers in his hair.

He peels her panties down her legs — lace, as he’d known, a little intricate thing made of black lace that he could easily rip in half to get to her pussy. But what a waste of such a pretty thing that would be.

“These are mine now.” He shoves her panties in his breast pocket, where his black crow brooch — a symbol of his life’s devotion to the Watch — is pinned. His hands skim up her legs and he delights in her trembling. “I’ll hold them to my face the next time I fist my cock over you. I’ll stuff them in my mouth so I can taste you, remember this hot cunt of yours, Sansa, ‘til I can get inside you again…

“Would you like that?” Jon’s eyes flit upwards to meet hers as he leans in, as the tang of her cunt tickles his taste buds. He swipes his tongue up her folds and groans, palms his hard cock over his trousers then and there. “You want to see me with your panties in my mouth, dying for another taste? Tell me, sweetheart, tell me what you want me to do for you.”

“I want to see you fist your cock for me,” Sansa tells him. Her demand breaks off on a moan when he swipes his tongue again, when he pushes it inside of her and eats her out with raw hunger, with the single-minded determination to make her scream his name in the middle of this holy sanctuary. “ _Oh, gods_ , Jon, let me see, please —”

 _“Mmmph.”_ Jon breathes deep, taking her all in. That heady musk, the salt and spice, it’s more than any mortal man could handle and just this once, Jon envies the gods that would have condemned him to a life serving anyone, anything, but Sansa.

Now, though, he is hers to command, and he would not deny her anything.

While one hand stays clamped around her thigh, the other makes quick work of his clasp and zipper. He groans into Sansa’s cunt when he takes himself in hand, a sweet relief she had commanded of him, a desire he was more than willing to fulfill for her. _Anything for her._

He pumps his cock as he licks her pussy, curling his tongue inside of her, making her squirm closer. She arches again and Jon meets the insistent cant of her hips gladly, delving his tongue deeper, working his mouth more furiously while he jacks off on his knees for her. She cards desperate hands through his curls, tugging him closer, ever closer, thighs clamping over his ears and he wants to hear her sing his name the way she sings Sunday morning hymns —

“This pussy’s so good, Sansa,” he says, voice muffled as he continues to feast upon her. His nails dig into the soft flesh of her thighs, sure to leave a mark and he’s happy for it. “So hot and wet for me in the middle of the sept. Is this what you want, wicked girl, you want all the gods to see me worship you?

“It’s what I want,” he continues when all Sansa can do is moan, press her swollen lips together and sigh his name. Just as he’d wanted. “I’m yours, I belong to you, just as this sweet hot cunt is mine, and I’ll make you come wherever you want.”

 _To hell with the gods_ , Jon thinks again, and sucks on Sansa’s clit ‘til she screams — a high yet guttural sound, a musical note, a song composed of nothing but his name. _The gods never gave me this._

Jon comes when Sansa does. Her taste floods his tongue and he comes in his hand, hard and fast and dizzy with satisfaction.

They slump, bodies sated and buzzing, Sansa in her little wooden chair and Jon on the floor at her feet. He nuzzles into her thighs, leaving red marks from his neatly trimmed beard behind; he sucks languidly on the smooth, discolored skin, soothing the aches as he incites further hunger in his bones. Having her once wasn’t enough, Jon knew it wouldn’t be, and he means to have her every other way, too.

If only once was a sin, he can’t imagine that more, that _everything_ , will make much of a difference.

“That was —” Sansa gulps down air, all thick and humid with their rapid, panting breaths “— _Jon_ , gods —”

“Keep touching me,” Jon murmurs against her hip. He takes her wrist, sweeps his fingers over the pitter-patter of her pulse, and shoves her hand back into his mussed hair. “Just like that, sweetheart.” He traces his tongue along the crease of her thigh. “Keep your hands on me. Only me, Sansa. You wanna be mine, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she swears with a conviction Jon has never known, not even when he took the black himself. He meets her gaze, steady, as he works his mouth slowly up her body. “I’ve been yours, all yours.”

“Yeah?” Jon pauses to lick up her cleavage. His hand closes over one lace-covered breast, and still his eyes remain on hers. “All mine, Sansa? Keep going. Tell me more.”

Her fingertips dance down the curve of his cheek, scrubbing at his beard, as her eyes darken — lit up only by the nearly-set sun in those jewel-bright window panes — and she does as he demanded: “I’ve only ever thought of you. No matter who I was with, it was you in my head. I’d pray for guidance but I’d go to bed with thoughts of you. It was always so _hot_ , Jon, I could never breathe when I thought about you —”

He cuts her off, swallows the words on his own tongue when he takes her mouth in another kiss.

She tastes like forgiveness, like salvation, like the freedom he’s been chasing. She tastes the way the gods are meant to make him feel, if only they would let him have her.

But he’s going to keep her, anyway.

Jon fingers the weirwood locket that hangs ‘round her neck; he presses the pad of his thumb to her pulse and feels it hop and skip and thrum for him, all for him. He kisses her harder at the thought of it — _mine, heavens and earth, she’s all mine_ — and drinks her mewling little sighs like holy water.

_Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…_

He thinks the words idly, fleetingly, with one hand on Sansa’s heartbeat while his lips coax hers further apart.

_…and I haven’t the will, nor intention, to stop._

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: this fic was meant to be longer, but as i’m in the throes of an ocular migraine (partially blind and all), we’re lucky i made it this far since i had to type this on my phone about half an inch from my face the whole time. ANYWAY, since i couldn’t give up the goods as thoroughly as i would have liked in one go, i’ll be keeping this universe open and expanding it as a series of completely debauched and delicious oneshots. blessed be. x
> 
> i will be posting another, separate dark!jon entry later tonight or tomorrow, which also involves a teacher/student relationship bc that’s just what’s makin’ the wheels turn today — that, and jiya’s edit on tumblr, so if anyone’s to blame for all my deviancy it’s probably her and also melissa for being so thirsty for this priest fic. any and all complaints may be addressed to them, so ta for now ;*


End file.
